


The End of Everything

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cross Keys, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Makes A Move
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John’s feet are there beneath the quilt, stacked crookedly, throwing off heat Sherlock pretends he can feel on his hip. Shoes, there. Socks, easy enough. Gooseflesh rising on his arms, licks his lips, pretends he is more afraid than he is, more drunk than he is. What a disguise: Real Person, Vulnerable."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of Everything

John asleep--no, only pretending to sleep, too angry to sleep--in the double-but-narrower-than-double-because-it’s-antique bed in at the Cross Keys. Sherlock with another generous pour of mid-range whiskey in him, trying to tame the emotion--afraid, afraid,  _look at me, John, I’m afraid_ \--he hates them: feelings. Wants no part of them and yet they persist. In all his life, what emotions got him was pain, and desperation, a need to be numb (wrong men, wrong medicine, either way the end was the same). A  _need_.

Up the narrow stair, unsteady on his feet (afraid) (a bit drunk), fumbles the key noisily in the lock, the door gets away from him and hits the wall; John doesn’t move, his breathing doesn’t change, and that’s how Sherlock knows he’s awake.

Undresses, laughs at his own shaking fingers barely able to slide the buttons through their slots, gives up after the cuffs plus one on the placket, tugs the thing up over his head then drops it. The trousers are easier: hook, button, zip. Forgot his shoes, sits on the foot of the bed rather than risk tilting and crashing, balanced on one foot tangled at the ankles. John’s feet are there beneath the quilt, stacked crookedly, throwing off heat Sherlock pretends he can feel on his hip. Shoes, there. Socks, easy enough. Gooseflesh rising on his arms, licks his lips, pretends he is more afraid than he is, more drunk than he is. What a disguise:  _Real Person, Vulnerable_.

Draws a deep breath, fills his belly with oxygen that feeds a fire and as he pulls the quilt back he has surely reached a point of no return. Slides in behind John, careful not to touch any single place on him, but shapes himself into his shadow: head on the pillow, back angled away, jutting there at the fulcrum of hip, thighs forward, one atop the other, calves back, ankles stacked. Where are his arms, though? Bent and tucked, gripping the pillow and the blanket-edges in furious, unsleeping fists beside his face. Sherlock touches his back there against his shoulder blade; John inhales but does not move or speak. Sherlock slips a long hand into the crease of John’s hip, slides it down to rest on the front of his thigh: cotton boxer shorts beneath his palm, then warm skin and fine hair beneath his fingertips.

“Sherlock, are you. . .?”

. . .naked?

. . .out of your mind?

. . .fucking kidding me?

_. . .sure?_

He doesn’t finish; in a half-breath Sherlock has closed the space between John and the long, narrow shadow that is Sherlock. Sherlock’s insteps against his soles, Sherlock’s knees behind his knees, evidence of Sherlock’s intent hot against his backside, Sherlock’s belly breathing against his back, and Sherlock’s mouth just coming open at the back of his neck.

John groans as if Sherlock is ruining his life, and he probably is, but it’s too late now, the arrow is flying and will no doubt run them both through. They’ll die, surely it’s the end of everything, but at least they’ll be impaled together, by Sherlock’s piss-poor timing and bad decisions and wildly inconvenient feelings, straight through both their hearts.


End file.
